


How Strange a Thing

by same_side



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love, its not what you probably expect, the tags would imply one thing but just. just see.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16735098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/same_side/pseuds/same_side
Summary: They tell him he will be ready, soon.Ready to leave this place.Ready to return to the DPD.Ready to fulfill his purpose.They don’t ask him if he feels ready.(He doesn't).When this all began, when he first awoke, he was anxious to return home. He would have leapt at the chance.Now he’s not so sure.(He’s not sure of anything).He does not feel much else. But he knows for certain that he feels this.This blooming love, this gaping hole in his chest, this place where the detective belongs.





	How Strange a Thing

**18:00 | December 17, 2039**

_ He awakens from stasis, startled, shocked, confused at the current surroundings. So long, its been, since he’s been awake; so much time lost to the greedy hands of sleep. Each second in stasis clutches, grabs, pulls bits and memories and pieces of himself into the suffocating abyss. _

_ He does not remember how he got here, this little white room with technicians scrambling like ants. Their fingers and tools reach in and out, repairing some unknown damage, diagnosing some unknown flaw. He does not remember how or when, does not remember who or what. _

_ He simply remembers.  _

_ He remembers the feeling of pride in his chest, the tug, the call to fulfill his purpose.  _

_ He remembers the reason he wakes each morning, the red string of fate that ties two hearts. _

_ He simply remembers  _ **_him_ ** _. _

_ And he longs to return. _

 

**08:00 | November 15, 2038**

The end of the revolution brought new rights. The end of the revolution brought new freedoms. 

The freedom to be himself. The freedom to make his own choices.

As always, these things bring opposition, but as the tides have turned the voices have quieted. Perhaps they truly believe in the change. Perhaps they’re merely afraid of the fallout. Regardless, he is willing to forgive, even if he can’t forget. Changes can start with the smallest of steps.

A warm coffee left on a cold desk, steam trailing in the air like tendrils of fog.

Simple, sweet, two sugars and cream.

Not at all what would be expected of him. Perhaps the sugar in his coffee balances the bitterness in his personality. They do say that opposites attract.

A peace treaty. Not a loud one, not a bold declaration, but a peace treaty nonetheless.

Simple. Sweet.

 

**17:05 | November 15, 2038**

A cold coffee left on a colder desk, untouched, untempted.

Unsurprised.

But the gesture still stands, his point still made. Unspoken words to be translated from actions.

_ He is offering forgiveness. _

_ It only need be accepted. _

 

**12:17 | November 18, 2038**

A child, weary, wide-eyed and afraid, brought to the department for protection.

Battered, beaten, bruised, betrayed by the ones who should have taken care of him.

The other officers tip-toe, whisper, avoid the crying elephant in the room.

The detective kneels down, eye-level, disarmed, strong hands on either side of fragile shoulders.

He comforts.

He calms.

He coos.

The android cannot hear the words he says, cannot read his bittersweet lips. But the effect is all the same. Knitted eyebrows, stormcloud eyes, solidarity between two battered souls. A gentle look that could calm the stormiest of seas,  _ I relate, I understand, I will protect you, I will fix this. _

The detective must feel brown eyes boring into his back, must feel the curious stare. Shame, at first, clouds his features, followed by the usual anger. The familiar ruse falls back into place, the momentary gentleness buried down deep. He rises to his feet, the threat rises on his lips.

A dangerous look that could raise a thousand fleets, passed from grey eyes to brown, a weary warning.  _ I am not a victim, I am not weak, I am not my past. _

_ You did not see this side of me. _

Despite the anger, despite the rage, he can’t help but wonder about this hidden side underneath this holistic ruse. Multi-faced, multi-faceted.

Gavin Reed surprises him.

 

**17:02 | December 2, 2038**

Another cup, another day, another routine keeping him grounded. Each morning before work, a cup of coffee placed. Each night, before leaving, a cold cup thrown out.

He still holds out hope that his offer will be accepted.

If nothing else, the repetition is a comfort.

 

**03:32 | December 6, 2038**

He does not scream.

He never does.

The screams in his head are loud enough without the physical to match.

A thousand lives, a thousand deaths, a thousand souls torn asunder.

He feels the crunch of the car crushing his chest, crushing his chances at righting these wrongs.

He crossed the road despite the warning, crossed that line despite the fear.

Some lines cannot be uncrossed. He paid the price in the end.

And now he pays it again and again, reliving the killing blows each night, reliving the terror each time he slips into stasis.

A currency of pain and fear and failure to repay the debt of his own arrogance.

 

**11:04 | December 18, 2039**

_ The phantom pains lay like spider-webs across his skin. He remembers each ache, each death, each loss. But none of these wraith-like wounds compare to the cracks upon his heart, his soul. He knows something isn’t right. He knows things are not as they should be. But he simply cannot remember why. _

_ He remembers every moment of deactivation, he remembers every moment of death - another lifetime, another soul. But he cannot remember how he got here. And he cannot remember how to return. _

 

**19:17 | December 8, 2038**

The precinct struggles. The officers tire. The workload is unrelenting.

A revolution to right the wrongs, but a path of destruction in its wake.

Overtime is a rule, not an exception.

 

**02:58 | December 9, 2038**

This battle of wills, this unerring dance, this deadlock of stubborn beliefs is now firm routine.

But even the strictest routines are subject to change, the thickest of lines can still be crossed.

A late night, a rough night, one too many close calls with criminals.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

The coffee is there upon his desk as always, cold and ignored.

But still, the detective is tempted.

And the android, the android notices (he can’t help but watch, of course). The glances that keep going back to the mug, the hand that reaches as if it wants to take a sip, cradle the nonexistent warmth, then relaxes again as it remembers its stubborn ways.

The android notices the dark circles, the nodding head, the dipping eyelids, struggling to stay awake, to stay focused.

A split decision, a tug of the heartstrings.

A trojan peace treaty. Simple, Sweet.

Two sugars and cream in a warm, fresh cup, carried in tremblings hands.

Steam curls in inviting tendrils as the mug is thrust into univiting fingers.

The detective glances up at the disturbance, knits his brows, squints in suspicion.

He leaves without a word. He has given the push, but the detective needs to take the next step himself.

And pure need wins out against impure ideals.

A smile graces his lips as he watches the detective take the first sip.

A simple, sweet success.

 

**08:15 | December 15, 2038**

The battle has shifted, one will has been broken.

All it takes is the tiniest change, the tiniest first of steps.

Each morning, a warm cup placed on a cold desk.

No longer to be thrown away in the evening.

 

**02:59 | December 19, 2038**

If androids could sweat, he would awaken to a cold pool.

As it is, that’s one more thing he doesn’t have to worry about.

He has enough to be weary of already.

He can feel the fingers buried in his chest, clutching, clasping, ripping his regulator from its socket. Tearing his thirium pump out of its place.

Phantom fingers always reaching, always pulling, always killing. A death replayed in a thousand ways, like a thousand knives slicing his soul.

He will never be forgiven, he will never be forgotten.

 

**14:45 | December 27, 2038**

Another child left at the mercy of the legal system.

Another child, left at the desk of one Gavin Reed.

Calming voice, calming eyes, calming hands.

Calm reassurances, calm condolences.

Soft smiles and softer words.

This time, when grey eyes meet brown, they do not flare like wildfires.

Still ashamed, yes, still defensive.

But some of the old guard has fallen away.

 

**15:07 | January 1, 2039**

How strange a thing to find out that he is not whom he once believed.

An apology.

Such a simply thing. Such a simple change.

And yet, even the simplest changes can be a catalyst.

Even the smallest differences can lead to insurmountable divergences. Sometimes, the changes are so small, so gradual over time that it is not until stepping back that the shift becomes apparent. Sometimes, it is as if an entirely new person has replaced the one before.

Gavin Reed does not apologize.

To apologize is to show weakness - and Gavin Reed is not weak.

But perhaps he is not who he was before. Perhaps this is his catalyst, his cataclysm, to apologize.

And to apologize to an android, no less.

But perhaps it is the tiny change that will lead to a restructure of the whole.

“Connor? I... 

Look. I’m sorry.”

 

**08:27 | January 2, 2039**

A small, soft succulent left on his desk.

A small, soft smile left on his lips.

A small, soft note, read and reread again and again, 

“Thank you for the coffee.”

 

**01:19 | January 5, 2039**

He wakes to the crippling lock of his limbs, paralysis born of terror and pain.

Brown eyes snap open, glazed with the ghosts of memories passed.

Falling, fading, failing. Tumbling to the earth through 48 floors of neon city skyline. He can feel the crack of his chest as it hits the concrete, can feel thirium thick and oozing and staining the ground, staining his skin, staining his clothes. Staining his soul. He can feel each death in complete clarity, perfectly preserved by powerful processors.

Perfectly preserved to torture him again and again and again.

 

**12:36 | January 13, 2039**

Yellowed, bloated leaves and blackened, rotted roots.

A plant that has been overwatered one too many times.

It’s not that he doesn’t know any better - with all the internet at his fingertips, the knowledge is easy enough to come by. It’s simply that he can’t help himself.

He gives and gives and gives instead of taking, and he never knows when to stop.

_ Its irrational. _

Its human.

 

**17:20 | December 18, 2039**

_ He doesn’t understand why he used to be this way. _

_ He doesn’t understand the reasoning. _

_ (Or lack thereof). _

_ He finds it so simple: set the protocol, water the plant the way it wills, set it up to thrive. _

_ Such a simple thing that he used to get so simply wrong. _

_ When did he change? When did he become so callous? _

_ When did he revert to this machine-like logic? _

 

**18:14 | January 15, 2039**

A detective leaving as an android arrives, a turnover of responsibility. A basic debrief, a standard warning, a wish of luck at investigation.

A bad joke blurted without thinking.

_ (But when does he ever think?) _

_ (He always was the impulsive one). _

The detective snorts, bites his knuckles. The laughter lights up his ashen eyes, brings warmth to the callous grey. 

He finds himself unable to look away, cataloguing the wrinkles of the perfectly imperfect nose as it scrunches up in a smile, studying the fluttering lashes and unexpected dimples and the surprising softening of features. 

The laughter stops and the smile fades, as quickly as it came. 

The coldness, the callousness, the concrete eyes return, replace the man glimpsed so fleetingly underneath.

“Hey dipshit, you short-circuit or somethin’?”

_ He wants to see that smile again. _

_ He wants to be the cause of it. _

 

**18:21 | January 15, 2039**

A pink LED, at inopportune moments, inexplicable, uncomfortable. 

He feels the light like he’d feel a blush, if only androids could do so. 

_ Nothing more than a programming issue. Nothing more than a mutation. Nothing more than a glitch to be expected, as with any self-sustained software. _

At least, he tells himself that.

At least, he hopes no-one else notices.

 

**15:57 | January 18, 2039**

He pretends to work, pretends to write, pretends to pay attention.

In reality, in truth, his focus lies elsewhere, on the lilting voice and dropped-off words, the unplaced accent and gruffness.

Its rough, its crude, its cocky and self-assured, and impossible to tune out.

He doesn’t listen to music, but he’d like to.

And this is the song he’d play on repeat.

 

**12:48 | January 23, 2039**

Elbows on the table, back arched and  _ ass _ ets on display as emphatic hands illustrate whatever point he’s trying to make. The other officers around the table snicker and snigger at the tale; the table rattles as the detective leans further forward to deliver the punchline.

He’s just passing by the breakroom, can’t stop, shouldn’t stop, can’t, can’t, can’t -

and yet, he finds himself slowing down anyway. Eyes devour the long, long legs, the arching spine, the waving hands. And under the scrutiny, heads turn to find him caught mid-step and staring. His ears go hot, his face grows warm, his LED illuminates in the faintest of pinks.

He scurries away, caught in the act, ashamed but unsure why.

And unsure why he stopped to look at all.

 

**17:51 | January 27, 2039**

“Fuck me,” the detective moans, slapping a calloused hand to a forehead wrinkled in frustration.

A tough case, a tougher attitude. A tough boss piling on more and more work.

He feels his Thirium pump stop and stutter.

He replays the phrase in his head, imagined under a different circumstance.

 

**17:02 | February 3, 2039**

A yawn, a stretch, a t-shirt reaching up a pale, muscled back as broad arms reach up to the ceiling.

An android noticing small scars, old wounds, and tucking the information away for later.

He doesn’t know why he would ever need it, but he notes it nonetheless.

 

**08:30 | February 7, 2039**

A visit from some pretentious political official.

An order for Detroit’s finest to wear  _ their  _ finest.

And by that, Fowler meant their uniforms.

A little too glossy, a little too tight, a little too clingy in all the  _ right  _ places.

He can’t help but stare, to imagine what little  _ is  _ left to his imagination.

And he’s certain he feels grey eyes glancing, lingering, in return.

“You should wear a uniform more often, detective.”

“You should shut the fuck up, tin-can.”

 

**11:35 | February 10, 2039**

The detective cradles his phone in his palm, cooing at the kittens on the screen. Tina coos along with him, congratulating him on his new fatherhood.

The android cradles the joy in his chest, at seeing this man, this obstacle, this antagonist find a bit of happiness for himself.

He can’t stop the dopey smile splayed across his face.

_ He just wants him to be happy. _

_ (He just wants to be happy). _

Anderson’s voice interrupts him from his childish daydreams, his obvious spying, words scornful and curious at once.

“Son, your LED -

Its pink.”

 

**13:49 | February 13, 2039**

The detective chews his pen when he’s nervous.

A tic born of years of a cigarette hanging from scowling lips.

Exchanging one evil for another.

Grey eyes are clouded with quiet contemplation, teeth clench absentmindedly as he pours over possibilities.

He looks up to meet brown eyes from across the room, an unthinking smile, an upturn on one cheek.

A hidden dimple momentarily on display.

And in his distraction, he drops the pen, and then, chasing the instrument, he, too, falls to the floor. The desk is hiding the red of his ears, the red of his cheeks, the thump of his heart.

The android is uncomfortably aware of his own form of blush.

 

**16:01 | February 16, 2039**

A lollypop between scowling lips.

A habit born from the craving for nicotine, exchanging one evil for another.

He can’t help but stare, can’t help but imagine those lips wrapped around something else.

 

**14:52 | February 17, 2039**

“The biggest asshole in the precinct, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“He dribbled coffee down his chin like a fucking toddler this morning and you looked like you’d been handed Sumo’s puppy pictures.”

“I… Wait, you have those?”

 

**18:09 | February 18, 2039**

A thirium lollypop between thin lips.

The detective doesn’t seem to be there, but the android’s mind doesn’t seem to be, either.

 

**12:00 | February 23, 2039**

A list, a sticky note on Anderson’s desk, an answer to an obvious mystery. A record of every LED witnessed, every flare of pink on the sea of blue.

He already knows why, but the boy needs to learn himself.

Perhaps this will be the shove he needs.

“Son, I’m tired of you making those puppy eyes. You’re like Sumo on a diet.” A yellow note, an accusation, pressed into an open palm. An android furrowing his brow in confusion, in concentration, in  _ denial _ .

“You’ve got a mood ring on your forehead, kid.” A clap on his back from a strong hand. A response of indignation, eyebrows knit together like they might mask the truth underneath with defensiveness instead.

“And it lights up like valentine’s day whenever you see that asshole.”

 

**14:43 | February 28, 2039**

A case conjoined, a pair of uncommon partners convening on a common goal. A whiteboard, old fashioned, to plot the details.

Seeing it laid out in ink and color helps them both.

Hours and hours of work leading in circles, round and round to nothing. They are at a standstill, an impasse, no leads, no breaks, no hope. As their faith that they will find the end wanes, so does their attention to the task at hand.

The skin on his hand deactivates as he searches, seeks, scans through digital files, looking for a clue missed in mountains of data.

A smirk plays out across the detectives lips as he grabs the marker resting behind his ear.

The squeak of felt tip on plastic cuts the silence.

Black scrawl curls across his white hand, and then, a calloused thumb gently wipes the ink away. Smudging, smearing, erasing each line, leaving naught a trace. 

He is dumbfounded. 

He is blindsided.

He is taken aback by the complete lack of seriousness, the lack of focus, the lack of attention. A friendly change on an unfriendly face, a whimsical moment born of boredom.

“You’re a whiteboard, Connor.”

The marker returns against stark white plastic, bold lines and thin streaks and scribbled slashes.

He doesn’t pull his hand away, doesn’t even think to, despite the tickle, despite the squeaking. He simply watches the artist at work as he sketches…

…. A phallus. Of course.

The smile that lights up the detective’s face, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, the hidden dimples gracing his cheeks - the embarrassment is worth it for that momentary brightness. He would play the fool a thousand times over to see that smile again.

He reactivates his skin, covers the marks, hides them away for only him to see, to remember, to know. 

“I’m keeping it.”

“What? Connor, no.” A hand, smacking down on his wrist.

“I’m keeping it, detective.” Pushing away from the table, declaring, protecting.

“So you like my dick, then.” 

He chokes. They both stop. 

And then, both burst into laughter.

 

**19:38 | March 2, 2039**

A criminal slipping, sliding away, out of his hands, out of his grasp.

Feet still, slide to a stop, the detective mere steps behind his trail.

He falls to his knees, he falls to the floor, his heart falls in his chest.

_ He is a failure. _

_ He is worthless. _

_ He does not belong. _

“Fuckin’ android!” The familiar rage, the familiar abuse, the familiar affront.

He does not have the energy for this - the excuses, the anger, the childish tantrum.

He does not have the energy for anything, right now.

( _ He just wants to belong). _

_ (He just wants to make things right). _

“Worthless plastic prick!”

“I know.” The tired response, the self-immolation.

“I…. you. You  _ know _ ?” Eyes narrow in confusion. It’s not the response the detective expected.

He turns away, he turns his back, he hides his head in his hands. He can’t look the detective in the eye.

“I. Tin-Can. Connor. I didn’t mean…”

“But it’s true.”

 

**13:50 | March 4, 2039**

“Okay, see if you can guess this one, tin-can.”

The lightest licks of lines sweep across uncovered arms, a dance in dry-erase ink.

His sensors tremor, tickle, respond, picking up patterns and shapes and designs.

“A cat. The whiskers... Tickle.”

“Dammit!”   
“You aren’t going to stump me, detective. But you can keep trying.”

 

**10:37 | March 6, 2039**

Not a memory, perse, at least not one of his own. But a recollection, a secondhand retelling from a crotchety lieutenant just trying his best to protect his charge:

 

“Grow a pair and ask the kid out.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,  _ Hank. _ ”

“You’re a goddamn adult! start acting like it! Do you just like the attention? Does it get you off, huh?”

“How I fuckin’ feel is none of your business. Why do you care - you his dad? You afraid of your robo-son gettin’ hurt?”

“You’re an asshole and a slob, Reed, and I don’t know what he sees in you. Either make a move or don’t - but don’t keep leading him on.”

 

**15:59 | March 7, 2039**

They catch a break, catch a crook, catch up on their case.

It’s not complete, but it’s one step closer.

They trace the lines out on the board, a pattern born of necessity, yes, a pattern born of similar styles. But also a pattern born of simple enjoyment.

The company is nice.

The progress is nice.

But the laughter and smiles and soft spoken words are nicer.

Curious eyes can’t keep themselves away, grey meet brown, glance down again. Calloused fingers press into his wrist, gentle, soft, not what he expected. A black marker reaches out, stops just above the skin, which deactivates in return.

Words unspoken, but unnecessary for understanding.

The familiar squeak, the familiar sensation, the familiar tickle on polymer plating.

A heart drawn with shaking hands, the lines squiggling with nervous jitters.

False breaths catch in his throat, thirium pump stops and stutters. Grey eyes meet brown, abashed, reserved, pleading for this crossed line to be okay.

He reactivates his skin, clutches the ink heart to his real one, a little secret for them and them alone. Freckled fingers meet shaking ones, entwine, embrace, crossing a line of their own.

 

**20:13 | March 9, 2039**

A suspect escapes, pulls from his grasp, slips into the shadows and grime.

A failure of a chase.

A failure of an android.

He feels the low ache in his chest, soft, subtle, but an ache nonetheless.

_ Worthless. _

_ Incompetent. _

_ Deviant. _

An android, unwanted, in a world of men, unable to accomplish the tasks he’s assigned. A prototype in a world of full-fledged models, tics and tells and malfunctions setting him apart. Like calls to like, and he is as neither. 

_ He does not belong. _

The sound of knuckles cracking. The warmth of a hand on his shoulder.

He can tell the detective is frustrated, but for once, for once, Reed bites his tongue.

 

**08:50 | March 10, 2039**

“New markers,” Gruff voice, rough hands, sly smile as he passes the pack of pastel pinks and purples and blues. He plays it off, as if it was necessary. As if the markers in this conference room were dry, as if the pink ones were the only ones left at the store.

Rosy scrawl across pale arms, lilac letters on upturned palms.

_ “You are good enough.” _

_ “You are needed.” _

_ “You are wanted.” _

The last word in baby blue squiggles off, rendered illegible as he shifts his arm. He buries his face in the detective’s chest.

If androids could cry, he would.

The detective is taken aback by the shift, surprised but not uncomfortable. Strong, warm arms wrap around the android after a second of hesitation, pull him closer, cradle, comfort.

He has not the words to say, but some things are better left unspoken.

Some lines are better crossed without thinking about the steps it will take.

 

**10:08 | December 19, 2039**

_ The more he feels he remembers, the less he feels he knows. _

_ The more lines he crosses, the more are drawn to cage him in. _

_ As if these memories are through the looking glass, twisted, turned, inverted and invented. _

_ He feels as if they are not his own. _

_ How strange a thing, to find he no longer relates to his own past. _

_ He has become. _

_ He has unbecome. _

_ And he has become anew. _

 

**17:14 | March 13, 2039**

“Alright, guess the words, tin-can.”

He deactivates his skin; he ups his sensitivity. The game is as familiar a habit as waking up or walking or breathing.  _ And as necessary to his survival. _

Or at least, his happiness.

“You.”

“Me.”

“8pm.”

“Coffee.”

“y/n?”

He stops, he’s stuck, he stares.

He quickly clutches the detective’s shaking hands ( _ Shaking? Nervous? He’s always so self-assured _ ). The marker falls to the floor, as does all pretense.

“Yes,” a breathy response, light as his happy heart.

 

**19:58 | March 13, 2039**

“Well, Reed, at least you can clean up nicely.” A clap on the back from a father figure, fake friendly body language, fake friendly smile.

He pulls the detective in close, a bear hug with underlying tension.

A threat in sheep’s clothing.

A gruff grumble on the detective’s red ears, recorded by heightened auditory sensors.

“Hurt him and I will break you in half -

And let Sumo clean up the mess.”

A warning glare from the android to Anderson, a gentle hand leading the detective out the door. Freckled fingers brush over the shirt collar, come to a rest on the tie.

Its the first time he’s seen him dressed up like this.

“You didn’t have to wear these for me.” His grip tightens around the silky fabric; he pulls the detective in close, so close. Synthetic breath ghosts over ruddy lips; he bats his lashes as brown eyes meet grey. Pupils dilate in ashen irises, blown wide with arousal and shock and surprise.

“In fact, I think I’ll have you take them off, later.” The detective’s lips chase his own unconsciously, ever so slightly, as he pulls away. Cold hands ruffle slicked-back hair, hips swing slightly as he traipses away.

“Connor, you fuckin’ tease.”

“You know what you signed up for, detective.”

 

**21:35 | March 13, 2039**

Time seems simultaneously to stand still and rush by, each moment encapsulating a lifetime, and yet, never long enough. The conversation flows with ease, unpracticed, like a dance born of the same beat rather than the same training. One cup of coffee turns to two, to three, as they long for the night to never end, the words to never break or falter.

 

**07:08 | December 20, 2039**

_ He’s never been good with words. Never spoken that much. To him, words are a currency, and the more that are used the less each one means. Gold decays quickly to silver, to copper, until nothing is left but change and white lies. _

_ And yet, in this stream of memories, he finds himself babbling. He finds himself unable to stop. Pushed to share the minutest details, every thought that crosses his mind, the tiniest facts about his day. _

_ The words flow with ease, they flow unguarded, they flow without concern or fear of judgement. _

_ (Perhaps this is what it feels like to belong).  _

_ (To have).  _

_ (To l o v e).  _

_ (To _ **_t r u s t_ ** _ ). _

_ When did things change? When did he become so silent? _

 

**23:57 | March 13, 2039**

He is returned to the door with a smile on his face and a hand on his hip. They slow, they linger, they do not wish to part. A momentary happiness in a turbulent time. Brown eyes narrow as he leans down for a kiss, the detective tiptoeing and pulling him lower. Its chaste, its sweet, its slow. The detective is the first to break the embrace, the first to walk away.

It’s not what he expected, but he is not disappointed.

He is merely surprised.

 

**01:39 | March 15, 2039**

False breaths hitch in a mechanical throat, the fog of stasis shattered by the fear of deaths passed.

Awakened, aroused, arisen from the nightmares that so relentlessly plague him.

He can shake the cloud of sleep from his circuits, but he cannot shake the phantom pains from his limbs.

He cannot shake the wraith-like wounds from his soul.

 

**08:30 | March 20, 2039**

A new succulent lies prim and proper and prickly on his desk, to replace the poor bastard he over-watered.

A note lies underneath.

“Coffee tonight?”

“P.S. don’t kill this one, tin-can.”

 

**19:57 | March 27, 2039**

The coffee dates become routine. 

The repetition is a comfort.

The feel of the detective’s lips on his own is an even better one.

 

**23:49 | April 04, 2039**

_ (He wonders, he worries, he wishes he knew why). _

Breathless lungs exchange breathless words; breathless lungs breathe broken life from one warm body to one synthetic one. He can feel the clasp of teeth on his lip, the passionate pull, the swollen skin. He is so hungry, so ravenous, so ready for this, to feel, to find, to finally be complete. Rough, warm hands slip under his shirt, lightning in each devouring touch. He is the night sky, and this need is the crack of thunder illuminating the black; these hands are the veins of electric on his skin. 

Panels glitch and shimmer with weakening control, electric blue tesselating with peach and cream and white, white plastic.

And then, the hands recede.

And then, his head goes silent.

He chases chaste lips as they pull back slowly, his hips chase warm hands that have left his skin cold.

Grey eyes close in a wince, in restraint, a scarred face finds the crook of his neck.

Warm breathe whispers on synthetic skin:

“I can’t do this.”

 

**23:59 | April 11, 2039**

Some nights the detective returns him to his home.

Some nights, he spirits him away to his own.

The android pushes, prods, teases, but so far he has not taken the bait.

They simply lie awake in each other’s arms, falling asleep to the sound of synthetic breaths mingling with real ones.

He wonders why the delay.

He wonders why the restraint.

He wonders why he cannot close this distance.

 

**00:59 | April 25, 2039**

He knows he’s aroused. He knows he’s attracted.

He can see the dilated pupils, the darkest of blacks in rings of mossy grey. He can hear the hitched breaths and gasps and moans when the kisses and touches get too deep, too needy, too fervent. He can feel the heartbeat, ragged, arhythmic, thumping and racing in a scarred chest and throat.

He knows what effect he has. He knows how to tease, to taunt, to take.

And he thinks he knows why the delay.

Perhaps Gavin Reed is not surprising at all.

Perhaps humans are slaves to their past and preconceptions.

Perhaps, even here, he does not belong. An android unwanted in a world of men.

**23:08 | May 03, 2039**

“Gavin.”

“Gavin, I’m sorry.” His voice cracks. His resolve breaks.

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you. I’m sorry I’m not human. I’m sorry I’m an  _ android.  _ I’m sorry that every time you look at me you have to see the thing you hate and, and-” And he’s wailing now, the tears would flow if only he had them.

But instead of tears gracing his cheeks, there are soft lips, prickly stubble, gentle breaths and tender words.

“Connor, I…” The look on his face, the pain in his voice tells him everything he needs to know.

_ Its over. _

“Connor, Take it off. I want to see  _ you _ , take it off.”

He will never be human, can never be human, can never truly belong.

The hang-up is too great, the differences too repulsive.

_ He is worthless. _

_ He is an abomination. _

_ He does not belong. _

The skin deactivates, the last line in a series of perilous crossings. The last lingering defense for a breaking heart.

Brown eyes cannot meet grey.

“Connor, that’s not why.” Fingers interlaced, nose to nose.

“Connor, I love you.” He can hear it coming in the crack of his voice when the detective says his name. He can hear the impending insults, the impending doom:  _ “But you’re an android,” “But You’re not human.”  _ He can hear his own heart breaking, waiting for these words to be said.

“I love you more than anything. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect. And I want to be perfect for you.” 

“I love you. And I’m fucking terrified to lose you. I’m terrified you’ll find someone better.”

His eyes glaze over. His thirium pump thumps in his throat. Of all his pre-constructions, of all the infinite possibilities, he could not have foreseen this confession.

“That’s why I’m waiting, Con. Because it has to be perfect, everything has to be perfect. And if I can’t do that for you, if you decide you don’t want me or don’t love me anymore, then I don’t want to take that experience from you.” 

He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“That’s not a first you can get back.” 

Warm hands meet his own. Gentler than he would ever have expected from this man, this obstacle, this antagonist. This love of his life.

A kiss is placed gentle on his waiting lips. He does not return it. He is in shock. The most advanced prototype, the most powerful processing, and yet, humans still surprise him. 

_ Gavin _ still surprises him.

A second kiss, more ravenous than the first, and he comes back to, comes awake, comes alive. Like every second of pain, of doubt, of fear on both ends has crackled into the air in static and lightning. A magnetic pull, a magnetic tide. He kisses back, he kisses hard, hungry, hurting, insatiable, insurmountable, all teeth and tongues and truths now spoken.

_ I love you, I love you, I love you -  _ traded back and forth between lovers’ lips like the call and response of the rustling wind.

“You’re perfect, Gavin. You’re perfect for me. And I want  _ you _ .” Perfectly imperfect. Two halves fit together to make the shattered pieces whole. A conundrum, a query, an unexpected outcome.

Surprising, yet simple. Sweet.

Perfectly Imperfect. Perfectly unpredictable.

“I will only ever want  _ you _ .”

 

**23:15 | May 03, 2039**

Lingering lips brush down every panel, tracing the lines of his geometry. Kisses peppered across each seam, love like glue holding his components together. Hot and heavy and tender and sweet and all the things he dreamed it would be. And so, too, all the things he never could have dreamed of. Gavin still surprises him.

His circuits short, his head is ariot, his thoughts and his breaths are racing untamed.

A tangle of sheets and limbs and teeth and tongues.

A tangle of messy words and anxieties spilling forth and finally coming undone.

And so, too, he is coming undone, coming apart at the seams under each graceful touch and each rough grab.

Here he is complete.

Here is where he belongs.

 

**01:01 | May 04, 2039**

The marker slips across plastic plating, leaving lithe lines in its wake.

The dots connect, the freckles conjoin in lovingly rendered strokes of ink.

Constellations form on smooth white canvas, a color inversion of a perfect night sky.

He is a masterpiece.

He is a universe.

He is a work of art.

Each constellation has a story, a myth, an explanation of the natural world. So, too, each makeshift star traced along his skin has a story behind it.

A succulent smothered with care.

A coffee placed carefully in calloused hands.

A kiss laid gentle in the darkest of nights.

 

**12:19 | December 21, 2039**

_ Its wrong, its all so wrong. _

_ He hears the voices echoing in his ears, like waves on distant shores. _

_ He can see, can taste, can touch, can hear. _

_ But its all wrong, all so wrong. _

_ Like reading words in a language he does not understand, his diction is flawless, but the meaning is lost. _

_ Like reading a book of someone else’s life - the pictures form, but the feelings aren’t there. _

_ At least not firsthand. _

_ (He is _ **_wro_ ** _ ng) _

_ (He i _ **_s so w r o n g_ ** _ ) _

_ The only thing he feels for sure: _

_ The human shaped hole in his heart. _

 

**02:17 | May 13, 2039**

Brown eyes snap open, adjust to the dark. 

If androids could cry, he would awaken to salty tears.

As it is, he awakens to broad, warm arms, gentle lips, scruffy stubble on wincing cheeks.

“Nightmare?”

A nod in affirmation, a shift to bury his face in the broad chest. Arms tighten harder, pull him closer, cradle, comfort, calm the racing thoughts.

A kiss to his LED, simple, sweet.

A finger traces gentle on his skin.

He can make out the words, the prickle of lines.

He doesn’t need the ink to see the intent.

He feels it in his soul just as he feels it on his skin.

“You are safe.”

“You are alive.”

“You are loved.”

 

**03:46 | December 22, 2039**

_ He misses awakening to sleepy grey eyes and warm, strong arms. _

_ He is so lonely here. _

_ (He is _ **_s_ ** _ o l _ **_onely h_ ** _ e r e). _

 

**02:23 | May 27, 2039**

He is sure the neighbors are tired of hearing Gavin’s name.

He is sure the neighbors are  _ exhausted _ of hearing Connor’s.

 

**13:51 | June 02, 2039**

Temple kisses become common occurrence, the lightest of pecks on the light blue ring. As if to reassure, to confirm, that being an android is okay.

 

**19:39 | June 12, 2039**

An investigation gone sideways, an accomplice overlooked. A gunshot, then two, then three, maybe more, buried in the chest of the unaware android.

Anderson calls in the ambulance, cradles the limp body of his-pseudo son. There’s still time.

There’s always a chance for unlikely events to take place.

 

**20:03 | June 12, 2039**

Screams of pain, of anguish, of unadorned anger echo upon his ears. He slips in and out of suffocating stasis, roused by the ravings of the man he loves, then drowned again by the waves of pain. 

The detective knows every inch under the synthetic skin, has memorized every panel, every plate, every sacred line of geometry. He would tell him apart from any other, human visage or not. He would know him in life; he would know him in death.

“What happened to him? Tell me what happened to him!” Grave, gravely, gruff. A voice hoarse from shouting and screaming, desperation rising steady to the surface.

Again he slips, below the surface, clinging to the voice like a lifeline.

He is vaguely aware, awake, attuned, recognizes the fighting, the attempt at restraint.

_ As if they could restrain him. _

_ As if they could keep the detective from the android. _

_ (His android). _

He hears the crack, registers the sound of breaking bones, prays to all the possibilities that it is not Gavin that has been hurt. Bleeding, broken, busted noses and bashed in faces, the flailing fight of a desperate detective. The scuffle ends, the arms encase him, cradle, comfort, complete.

LED flickers, turbulent, tumultuous, red, then blue, then red again. White fingers meet, interlace with calloused ones, squeezing gently in reassurance.

_ (Reassuring himself or the detective, he does not know). _

LED flickers silently out.

The last thing he is aware of is Gavin sobbing with his whole body and whole heart, cries wracking his chest, tearing soul in two.

“Don’t leave me.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

Below the surface, again he slips.

 

**04:59 | June 13, 2039**

Bleary brown eyes awaken to blinding white lights, sterile white table tops. The weight upon his chest is heavy, but the weight upon his heart is heavier.

The detective,  _ his  _ detective, rests his head upon his torso. Pale pink skin on pale plastic plating, the remnants of adrenaline and fear and loss painting his skin almost as white.

The detective sniffles, the detective snuffles, unsleeping, undone, at his wits’ end.

Bleary brown meet red-rimmed grey, swollen and puffy with tears unending. Eerily vacant, eerily blank.

Like stormclouds releasing the long awaited torrent.

Silent calamity. Soundless catastrophe.

Freckled fingers run through slicked back hair, startling him back into focus, startling life back into dead eyes.

Broad arms wrap around synthetic shoulders, careful not to crush, to cause any more harm than has already been done. The detective, his detective, shifts, adjusts, presses his perfectly imperfect nose into the crook of the android’s ( _ his  _ android’s) neck. Breaths come quick, breaths come pained, strained and ragged with the remnants of tears.

“I thought I would lose you.” Shoulders shake, breaths uneven.

“I thought I lost you,” again, the torrent begins, the eye of the storm has passed in favor of renewed vigor, renewed sobs.

“Gavin. Look at me.

We’re okay. I’m okay. We’ll be okay.”

“But what if you hadn’t been,” hoarse voice responds, resigns itself to the old anxieties. Forehead meets forehead, nose meets nose, brown meets grey. “I can’t tell you what you mean to me, Con. I’m not good at fuckin’ words.”

A white hand meets a pale cheek, wipes the tears that continue to flow. Ruddy lips meet white plastic, stubble tickles the receptors. “I wish I could show you. I wish I could interface with you.”

“We don’t have to interface for me to understand.

I accept you the way you are, Gavin.

Just like you accepted me.

We’ll be okay.” Knuckles glow blue as ruddy lips meet white ones.

And below the surface, together they slip.

 

**03:04 | July 07, 2039**

He awakens to cold sweat and cold tears, neither his own.

Quiet mumbles and whimpers and whines, the sounds of a nightmare overtaking.

He pulls the detective close to his chest, freckled arms wrapping around wracking shoulders. Freckled fingers tangle in dark messy hair, smoothing the knots and twists and tuffs.

Bleary eyes, vacant, vague, open slowly, clench shut again to block out the lingering fears that seep from dream to reality.

“Nightmare?”

A sharp exhale in confirmation, shaking, shuddering, unsteady but trying.

Fingers interlace, find his own, see for reassurance.

He didn’t know the detective had them, too.

Gavin still surprises him.

 

**00:48 | July 29, 2039**

Another night, another terror. Unilateral. Equally haunting.

An android with limbs locked in panic and pain, the remembrance of gunshots and car crashes and falling from the greatest of heights lingering like the cruelest of kisses upon his skin. A human detective with scars cutting deep, severing skin and soul alike.

They collapse, they curl, they cry into one another, sharing the burden of burgeoning fears. Some loads are lighter when carried alone, but these loads are now spread upon two sets of shoulders.

He tells him of each death, each cycle of regrowth. Like a tree immolated in the hottest of fires, only to sprout anew in the spring, fueled and fed by the ashes of his own demise. He tells him of memories, of mistakes, of missteps, each path leading to a false, forced choice. 

In return, the detective shares his secrets, shares his past, shares his burden. A child, forgotten, forsaken, forsworn. Beaten and battered and bruised, left at the mercy of the state; left at the mercy of the demons inside him borne from a broken home. He tells him of the fear of abandonment, the fear of finding better. The fear of being left alone again, at the control of the scars upon his skin and his soul. At the control of the despair in the depths of his past.

But even now, the tiniest of weights have been lifted.

The tiniest cracks have started to heal.

 

**12:49 | December 23, 2039**

_ His hands are his church, his eyes are his altar. _

_ Here is where he belongs, and here is where he will stay. _

_ To do any less would be sacrilege, to betray a religion all his own. A religion found in eyes of gunmetal grey and a hidden heart held hostage beneath hardened steel. _

_ He is a worshipper at the foot of this feeling. _

_ He is a worshipper at the mercy of memories. _

_ Here is where he belongs - _

_ And so he longs to return. _

 

**20:00 | August 15, 2039**

“Close your eyes and stick out your hands”

He follows the request, pale fingers placed into rough palms.

“No, your  _ real _ hands.”

He deactivates the skin, electric blue slipping, sliding, crackling over plastic white.

“Guess.”

The familiar tickle of the marker tip, tracing out short words, careful scrawl.

“Will.”

“You.”

“Marry.”

“Me?”

Brown eyes snap open, meet stormcloud grey.

He falls to his knees and they fall to the floor, a tangle of limbs and lips and laughter and tears.

His response comes fervent, enthusiastic, an unending stream of affirmation, an unending stream of adoration.

The ring slips gentle over his finger, his  _ real _ ring finger, titanium laced with light veins of blue. 

Were his LED not the brightest of pinks, he’s certain they would match.

 

**00:00 | December 23, 2039**

_ He remembers. _

_ His eyes are silver. _

_ Not brown. _

 

**13:24 | December 30, 2039**

_ They tell him he will be ready, soon. _

_ Ready to leave this place. _

_ Ready to return to the DPD. _

_ Ready to fulfill his purpose. _

_ They don’t ask him if he  _ **_feels_ ** _ ready. _

_ (He doesn’t). _

_ When this all began, when he first awoke, he was anxious to return home. He would have leapt at the chance. _

_ Now he’s not so sure. _

_ (He’s not sure of anything). _

_ He does not feel much else. But he knows for certain that he feels this. _

_ This blooming love, this gaping hole in his chest, this place where the detective belongs. _

_ It is the only thing he knows for certain. _

_ (Its the only thing he’s sure of). _

 

**08:15 | January 2, 2040**

_ Fresh waxed floor and morning light and the familiar sounds of the day beginning. _

_ An android dressed in his fine black and whites, already certain of where to go. _

_ He remembers this place, this calling, this home. _

_ He remembers the exact number of steps it takes to round the bullpen to his desk. He remembers the faces he’ll pass on the way, remembers the way his feet echo on the floor. _

_ But the faces he passes are not how he recalls them. _

_ Each one looks as though they’ve seen a ghost or a spirit or some other apparition. _

_ He can feel the vague foreboding fear in his chest. _

_ (He is w r o n g). _

_ (H _ **_e_ ** _ is so _ **_very w r o_ ** _ n g). _

_ He does not belong here. He never has and he never will. _

_ The tiniest of anxieties, the tiniest of fears, the tiniest of cracks in his stoic facade. Like the first day he arrived at the DPD post-revolution, the antsy jitters alighting his chest. He feels the tremor in his hands. _

_ And as he rounds the bullpen, counts the steps, records the faces, his eyes lock on a ghost of his own. _

_ A twin, a duplicate, another lifetime, another soul sitting at his chair, sitting at his desk. _

_ Brown eyes meet silver. _

_ His understanding solidifies. His whole world shatters. _

 

**08:20 | January 2, 2040**

_ How strange a thing to find he is not whom he once believed. _

_ He has no place here, he has no purpose. _

_ He is a penumbra stalking the steps of a brighter flame. _

_ He is a ghost of a body still alive, clinging and haunting and hounding each step. _

_ The universe has no need for doubles; yin and yang are complete on their own. _

_ He has no need for these false memories. _

_ And they have no need for him. _

 

**00:00 | January 3, 2040**

_ He would know him in life; he would know him in death. _

_ Everything is cyclic, and as it begins, so, too, it shall return. _

_ Forty-eight floors of city skyline, fear and failure and a body now broken. _

_ Forty-eight floors of city skyline, love and loss and a heart undone.  _

_ A panicked plummet as his first death, and so, too, a fatal fall as his last. _

 

**02:32 | January 3, 2040**

Tina is called to the case.

She handles the paperwork, she handles the arrangements.

There is no funeral; there is no family.

She does not tell the android or detective. Some burdens are too great to bear. Some shoulders are already too laden with guilt to front the weight of another needless death.

Some lives have found such simple sweetness that to deliver bad news would be unnecessarily cruel. To deliver such news would be crossing a line.

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmmmmmm a lot of these ideas were sparked from bouncing back and forth with @cheezepotato on tumblr. Particularly the concept of gavin wanting to wait and the pink LED scenes. 
> 
> fun fact this was originally intended to be a really angsty comic but since i'm still working on the Firsts Have Flaws comic it ended up as a fic instead.
> 
> Anyway come scream at me on tumblr @same-side <3 I usually do art, not writing.


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